Part 3

Reginald investigated, and was interested. “There’s a lot of little jiggers under there that look as though they’d just fit my back.”

He got down on his fore-knees and wriggled under the red thing, grunting, while the others still debated together on ways and means.

During luncheon Galatea’s mood had softened. She was no longer piqued at the Artist’s detailed accounts of the wonders of his new automobile. Arthur, in a moment of intelligence, had squeezed her hand under the table.

“In case of a break-down of any kind,” observed the Poet, “I suppose you carry all sorts of tools and materials for repairs?”

“I never give the matter a thought,” said the Artist. “She’s such a perfect piece of mechanism that she can’t break down.”

“But suppose you should run over a pig, or a cow, and—”

“Oh, in that case I dare say the tool box might come handy.”

“Or punctured a tire?”

“The Red Ripper’s tires are warranted puncture-proof”; and the Artist entered into a long technical description of the new and improved process which had produced the Red Ripper’s impregnable tires. Galatea sighed several times, but it was useless.

“After all,” drawled the Poet at the first opening caused by a fish-bone sticking in the Artist’s throat, “you can’t make a sympathetic companion of an automobile as you can of a horse. Why, Galatea and I have the most improving conversations with Cleopatra and the pig.”

“Yes,” chimed in Galatea eagerly, “even Gustavius, the bull-calf, understands everything we say to him. It all proves the Professor’s theory that we don’t give these domestic pets half the credit they deserve for intelligent and affectionate interest in us and our affairs.”

“I’ve heard of your Professor and his crazy theories about animals,” said the Artist, having swallowed the fish-bone. “I’ll bet you do just as he did—you keep your pockets full of sugar for the mare, and you scratch the pig’s back.”

“Arthur, you haven’t the first conception—”

“No, Arthur,” broke in the Poet, seeing the fire in his sister’s eyes, “you couldn’t even see that Cleopatra was aware that your Red Ripper is a menace to her means of livelihood.”

“Pooh! George, the mare isn’t used to automobiles, that’s all.”

The Artist looked at his watch. “I think we had better be going, Galatea; I’ve just twenty-five minutes in which to whirl you thirty miles and back.”

Galatea disappeared, and returned in a moment with her fluffy pink costume, hat and all, covered by a hooded cloak of gray silk which became her exceedingly. The Artist put on his cap and gloves. At that instant a series of heart-rending squeals filled the air.

“Something has happened to Reginald!” exclaimed the Poet, and his long legs flew as he rushed to the rescue.

When Galatea and the Artist caught up with him, he was on his stomach half under the Red Ripper, tugging with all his might at one of Reginald’s hind legs. The pig’s squeals grew louder and more hopeless. Cleopatra, the colt, the cow, the bull-calf, and the goat, huddled together, looked on from a distance with expressions of wondering innocence. Napoleon barked furiously at the Poet’s waving legs. Gabriel came running up with a fence-rail on his shoulder. The Poet emerged, perspiring and baffled.

“The critter’s stuck, darn him!” said Gabriel. “We must lift the machine.”

He thrust one end of the rail under the Red Ripper’s frame. “Now, all together!”

The Poet and the Artist joined Gabriel with their shoulders under the rail, the machine rose an inch or two, and Reginald, choking a final squeal in his throat, scrambled out. At least three square inches of his back were ravished of their bristles. Not a particle of kink remained in Reginald’s tail. Straight for the barn he ran, emitting short grunts of relief and contrition.

“Great snakes!” exclaimed the Artist. “Look at that rear tire. There’s a hole in it you could throw a dog into.”

Nobody could offer any explanation, the bull-calf having forgotten all about it. The Artist’s eye suddenly lighted on the bent driving-levers, and for half a minute his language was far from polite.

“I warned you about Cleopatra,” said the Poet; “but you wouldn’t give the mare credit for sufficient intelligence to protect her personal interests.”

“Do you think, Arthur, that we will be able to whirl thirty miles and back in twenty-five minutes with a flat tire?” inquired Galatea innocently.

“Of course you can,” said the Poet solemnly. “The Red Ripper is such a perfect piece of mechanism that she can do it on three wheels.”

“That’s right, rub it in,” said the Artist. “When I came out here I didn’t count on being hoodooed by these four-legged friends of yours that can do everything but talk.”

“They can talk too,” retorted Galatea wickedly; “and they don’t confine their harangues to automobiles, either.”

The Artist winced. Galatea had one more shot for him.

“If you positively must be in Stamford at three o’clock, I’m sure Cleopatra will be only too glad to oblige you.”

“The blacksmith down to the station can fix you up in ten minutes,” spoke up Gabriel. “He’s a reg’lar genius at tinkerin’ up hossless buggies.”

“It’s mostly down-hill to the station,” said the Poet; “I’m sure Cleopatra will be charmed to assist the Red Ripper that far.”

Galatea sat down on the ground and laughed.

“Gosh, yes,” said Gabriel, starting for the barn. “I’ll go an’ git her harness.”

The Artist surrendered. He sat down beside Galatea, while the Poet looked the other way, and whispered things that made her eyes shine.

When Gabriel reappeared with the harness, a whiffletree and a stout chain, Cleopatra’s complete understanding of the situation could not be doubted. She thrust out her head for the collar, welcomed the bridle, and before the straps were buckled trotted proudly into position before the vehicle, which was now no better than an ordinary buggy.

“Isn’t she a dear?” said Galatea.

“All aboard; git in,” said Gabriel. “Mind and be careful about the brake—it’s down-hill.”

With a grimace the Artist placed himself in the chauffeur’s seat. Gabriel handed him the reins.

“I’ll foller an’ bring back the mare,” he said. “Giddap, old gal.”

Cleopatra looked around, shook her head, and refused to budge. Gabriel laughed, and looked at Galatea.

“You’ll have to git in. You can’t fool the mare; she sees you’re dressed for drivin’.”

The Poet, with great gravity, helped his sister up beside the Artist. Galatea took the reins. At her cheerful, familiar chirrup Cleopatra stretched her fine muscles, and, while the colt pranced about, kicking up his heels in irrepressible joy at this warning to the horseless, dragged the ponderous, vanquished enemy into the road and away. Never before stepped a mare of pedigree so proudly, nor trailed along a Red Ripper so ignobly.

III _Pig-Malion and Galatea_

“Galatea!” hailed the Poet from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes, George?”

“There’s a letter from Arthur. Come down.”

“I can’t, this moment. Je suis en déshabillé.”

“I thought so; your voice sounds full of pins. But you don’t need to air your Vassar French. The pig isn’t listening.”

“My French prose is better than your English verse. What does Arthur say?”

“He’ll be out here early.”

“What for?”

“Girl, have a care! While you are about it, make the most of the small charms with which the good Lord has endowed you.”

“I will, brother mine; I’m expecting Reginald to have his back scratched.”

Truth to tell, the pig was already contemplating a call with that object in view. Since early morning Cleopatra and her yearling colt, Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, and William, the big-horned one, had diligently cropped the dewy grass of the lower lawn until their sides bulged, while Reginald was so replete with artichokes that he was constrained to sit on his haunches and grunt stuffily while making occasional rude comments on the gluttony of his comrades.

“You have often reproved me for being greedy,” grunted Reginald as the colt harvested a luscious bunch a yard from where he sat, “yet I have never tried to eat up the whole pasture between sunrise and noon.”

“Don’t give me any of your impudence,” retorted Clarence, with his mouth full, “or I’ll shut my teeth on one of your ridiculous, flapping ears.”

“If you gave milk,” commented Mrs. Cowslip, “you would understand the necessity of a stomach filled with something better than artichokes.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the pig, with his mouth wide open. “The sides of your son bulge like the sides of the barrel in which Gabe keeps your breakfast of bran. Ha! ha! does Gustavius give milk?”

“Let me at him, mother,” said the bull-calf, waving his tail aloft and lowering his horns. “I’ll teach him!”

“No, you don’t,” said the pig, showing surprising agility. “You greedy fellows annoy me; I’m going to the house and get that red-headed girl to scratch my back.”

So intensely satisfied with himself that the kink in his tail tightened to the verge of discomfort, Reginald scampered across the lawn and up the steps leading to the veranda. With his forefeet on the top step he halted at a gruff challenge from Napoleon. The bull-terrier, with teeth unpleasantly visible, barred his way to the door.

“My goodness,” said the pig, with easy assurance, “how you startled me! You were always such a joker.” And Reginald got his forefeet on the veranda floor.

“Now, that’s the limit,” growled Napoleon. “One step farther, and I’ll have your ears in ribbons.”

“You don’t know how handsome you are when you put on that fierce look,” said the pig in flattering tones. “Any stranger would believe you in earnest. But you and I know each other.”

“What do you want?” growled Napoleon, somewhat mollified in spite of himself by the pig’s flattery.

“I’ve nothing to conceal from you, Napoleon. I never have. I’ve come to get that lovely red-headed girl to scratch my back.”

“You’ll have to wait; she’s inside.”

“I’ll go right in,” grunted Reginald complacently; “no trouble at all, I assure you. Just step one side, Napoleon, and I won’t disturb you in the least.”

“You’ll come right in?” Napoleon was boiling with indignation. “Who ever heard of a pig in the parlor? You’ll get right out of here before I make you.”

Reginald assumed a look of injured amazement as he replied: “Is it possible, Napoleon, that you really mean to do me this injustice? Have you forgotten that we are all on terms of equality here?”

“Not in the parlor,” growled Napoleon. “No pig gets into our parlor, not if I know it.”

“But you go into the parlor whenever you please,” grumbled Reginald.

“It’s part of my business to go all over the house and see that there’s no trespassing. That’s what’s been expected of us dogs ever since the world began. Amanda raised an awful row that time the colt got in the kitchen. But I wasn’t to blame, being away from home with Gabe and Cleopatra.”

The pig, with all the stubbornness of his race, refused to be convinced.

“The Professor used to invite me in often,” he complained. “The red-headed girl would, too, I’m sure, if she knew I was here.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’s busy with that automobile chap. Can’t you hear their voices through the window?”

Reginald listened. Yes, it was the voice he loved so well—when accompanied by the delicious sensation of one of Amanda’s cast-off nutmeg-graters being rubbed smartly up and down his spine. It was cool and even, and was saying:—

“No, Arthur, I won’t go for a walk, thank you. I don’t think I like you very well to-day. You explain that you walked over from the station out of regard for the feelings of Cleopatra and Clarence, and yet you are wholly oblivious of my feelings. You come out here without your Red Ripper on an ideal day for a spin, and then you add insult to injury by talking of nothing else. Arthur, I hate your Red Ripper, I despise its phenomenally perfect sparking device, I loathe its triple-speed gear—”

The pig lifted up his voice in supplication. It was not in vain. Galatea emerged upon the veranda, smiling a welcome to Reginald, whom the Artist regarded with dark looks of resentment.

“Good-morning, Reginald; won’t you be seated?” she said brightly, dragging forward an easy-chair.

The intelligent pig scrambled into the chair, making confidential little throaty grunts out of the side of his mouth into the ear of his hostess. The bull-terrier satisfied his dignity by barking one brief comment for Reginald’s benefit:—

“Now what do you think? This isn’t the parlor. Perhaps you’ll understand after this that the veranda is the limit, for a pig.”

“Hush, Napoleon,” commanded the red-headed girl. “Here, get up beside Reginald and make him feel at home.”

It was a wide chair. After but one instant of disgusted hesitation, the bull-terrier obeyed.

“What has the terrier done that he should be so humiliated?” asked the Artist, who had even more than the average man’s respect for dogs as compared with other domestic animals.

The girl ignored the question. There was something odd and unfamiliar in her manner, a peculiar glint in her eye, her full lips were drawn in a straighter line than usual. Having no professional interest in the scene, the Artist—unluckily for him—observed none of these ominous signs. Galatea shook her finger in the terrier’s face.

“Napoleon, your manner toward Reginald is not cordial. Sit closer!”

The terrier meekly obeyed. The pig gave him an expansive smile. The Artist began an impulsive protest:—

“Oh, now, I say, Galatea—”

“Napoleon! Reginald! Salute each other!”

The dog thumped the chair with his tail, the pig grunted amiably, and they pressed their cheeks together like affectionate children. The lank figure and solemn visage of the Poet appeared in the door.

“What is Napoleon’s crime that he should suffer such punishment?” he inquired.

“Just as I was remarking,” began the Artist; “but—”

“That will do,” said the girl, taking no notice of these comments. “Now sit up and look pleasant; you are about to have your pictures taken by a very celebrated artist.”

Both Reginald and Napoleon assumed attitudes really remarkable for their ease and naturalness.

“Ahem!” began the Artist, growing very red in the face, and stopped abruptly at a coolly inquiring glance from Galatea.

“Do I understand,” she inquired frigidly, “that you take the absurd position of Paderewski, Calvé, Jean de Reszke, and other public favorites, and disdain to exhibit your art upon social occasions?”

“Not at all,” answered the Artist hastily, while the Poet regarded them solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “No, but—Well, you see, I—I am not accustomed to have pigs sit to me for their portraits—at least, not upon social occasions.”

“It is perhaps as well that you should understand fully that Reginald is a personal friend of mine, and that we are on terms, not only of sympathetic affection, but of perfect equality.” And the girl placed her arm about the pig’s neck with a caressing touch that sent him into a transport of appreciative grunts.

“If I thought that you were guying me—”

The girl turned upon him sharply. “Have I ever insinuated that you were guying me when you compelled me to listen for hours to mechanical details about your Red Ripper? I, to whom poets are proud to read their original manuscripts in advance of publication?”

“Arthur,” said the Poet gravely, “Galatea is right. This is a case of love me, love my pig. Your professional pride need not suffer. In fact, the result of your labors may bear appropriately a title that is classical.” He turned to his sister. “Galatea, I assume that you are to be in the picture—you will sit with the pig?”

“Certainly,” said the girl, as a swift glance of understanding passed between brother and sister.

“Why, then, just consider, Arthur,” said the Poet cheerfully, “you can send your picture to the Fall Exhibition catalogued as, ‘Pig-Malion and Galatea.’”

The girl laughed in spite of herself. Even the over-serious Artist was not proof against a conceit so pungent. But Galatea’s mood puzzled and disturbed him, for he really loved her as self-complacent young men often do love girls of keen wit and analytical minds.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I have no drawing materials with me.”

“I can supply them,” replied the girl, rising.

Reginald grunted reproachfully and started to scramble down from the chair.

“O Reginald, forgive me. I had forgotten you came to have your poor back scratched.”

She turned to the Artist. “Arthur, kindly hand me that nutmeg-grater over by the honeysuckle vine.”

The Artist obeyed. The pig grunted in grateful anticipation. Galatea applied the nutmeg-grater where she knew by experience it would do the most good. Napoleon sniffed disgustedly, jumped down from the chair, and went to the Poet for consolation.

“Now, Arthur,” said the girl presently, handing him the nutmeg-grater, “you attend to Reginald while I go for the drawing materials.”

The Artist took the unfamiliar instrument, looked at it, and then at the pig, and then at Galatea. He seemed dazed. As has been remarked before in this truthful narrative, the Artist was a most correct and proper young man. He was fashionably dressed, and with excellent taste. He would have considered it a crime to wear a cravat that disagreed by so much as a single dot or stripe from the prevailing mode. The thought of having in any way transgressed the rules of good form, as laid down in the exclusive club of which he was a member, would have tortured him for weeks. Could he conscientiously scratch a pig’s back—with a cast-off nutmeg-grater?

Galatea drew up a chair close to that occupied by Reginald. “Come, Arthur; you will not find Reginald ungrateful.”

“Galatea,” said the Artist, with a supplicating glance into the girl’s eyes as he moved toward the vacant chair, “when I leave this evening will you walk part way to the station with me?”

“Are you going to be a true friend to my friend—to Reginald?”

The Poet had strolled to the other end of the veranda.

“Yes, Galatea. You could have no friend who would be unworthy of my friendship.” In spite of the nutmeg-grater in his hand, in spite of the waiting pig, his manner and his voice were romantic.

“Yes, Arthur, then I will walk with you to the station.” But the smile she gave him was reflective, and at least half of it rested on the pig.

The Artist sat down obediently and applied the nutmeg-grater with a will to Reginald’s back. Galatea disappeared within the house. Presently she was heard calling to her brother. The Poet followed her. He found her in the library, sitting limply in a straight-backed chair and holding her handkerchief to her mouth. With a gesture of warning she dragged him into her own little den off the library, closed the door, and gave her merriment full rein. The Poet regarded her solemnly. Presently she was able to speak, though her phrases were interrupted by convulsions of cachinnation.

“George, it is perfectly clear—that in one respect Arthur—is hopeless—Never, never, never—never in this world will he acquire the slightest sense of humor. Think of it! At this moment—with an old nutmeg-grater, he is scratching a pig’s back—with all the seriousness—and attention to detail—that he would give to a portrait of—the Empress of Russia—George, a little while ago I was angry with Arthur. I thought him stupid, self-sufficient, insufferable. But now, when I think of him out there—irreproachably attired—scratching Reginald’s back—with all the grave politeness—and earnestness—with which he would hand around cups of tea at one of Mrs. Van Rensellaer’s afternoons—I—I almost love him.”

The Poet had not even smiled.

“Galatea,” he said, without a trace of his customary solemn banter, “don’t you carry this thing too far with Arthur. He’s as good as gold. He’s a young man among a million.”

“George, Arthur is more than human. I won’t have it. He’s got to let himself down, like ordinary people.”

“He is a man of honor—honor that is deep-rooted, ancestral.”

“He is a slave to the perfectly correct forms endorsed by the Knickerbocker Club.”

“He is a gentleman. He lives in the country upon acres that are his own, and is a father to those who serve him.”

“He is sacred to the memory of ‘noblesse oblige,’ and he rubs it in.”

“Galatea, you are an impudent and improvident young woman. As your legal guardian I would feel justified in locking you in your room, and keeping you there until you could realize the blessings you have and the opportunities that are open to you.”

“George, you are becoming almost as stupid as Arthur is. I wouldn’t have thought it of you. Listen. I am going to reform Arthur. I admit he’s worth saving. It is hopeless ever to expect him to develop a sense of humor, but he shall at least cultivate a sympathetic interest in Bos, Equus and Co.”

She took from her desk and thrust into the Poet’s hands pencils and a sheet of Bristol board.

“Take these to Arthur, please. I’ll join you in a minute.”

The Poet shook his head doubtfully, but obeyed. The girl stood for a moment with her finger on her lip, smiling. Then she took from a work-basket needles and thread and a yard or two of faded pink ribbon, and, picking up a somewhat dilapidated specimen of the fluffy chiffon headgear which she affected, she returned demurely to the veranda where the Artist was still painstakingly exercising the nutmeg-grater on Reginald’s back. The pig lifted his nose and grunted in her face, with language that could not be misunderstood:—

“Ah, at last! Our mutual friend here has been doing his best, but he falls short of exactly the right touch. Evidently he’s inexperienced.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” said Galatea amiably, accepting the post which the Artist surrendered to her. “Reginald says you have been very attentive. Now he will reciprocate by posing in his very best manner. Attention, Reginald!”

The pig assumed a serious and dignified expression. The girl sat beside him, placing the chiffon affair daintily over his ears. The Artist seated himself opposite with pencils and drawing-board. The Poet leaned against the veranda rail and looked over the Artist’s shoulder. His long visage had resumed its customary expression of whimsical solemnity. The Artist’s manner was unaffectedly professional.

“Does the hat belong to the pose?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Galatea. “The idea is that of a girl thoughtful for the comfort of her dumb friend. To protect his head from the rays of the July sun she places upon it the hat taken from her own head, already well protected by nature.”

“True,” commented the Poet. “I’ve often thought how chagrined the July sun must feel when he attempts to vie with your blazing topknot.”

“As a matter of fact,” went on Galatea composedly, “the flies have been worrying poor Reginald’s ears terribly. Hereafter he shall have the same protection as other civilized beings.”

The Artist’s pencil moved swiftly. With needle and thread Galatea attached a pink ribbon to each side of the hat,—while Reginald grunted confidential inquiries in her ear,—and then tied them in a bow under his fat chin.

“There, Reginald, you’re perfectly lovely. Now if you’ll promise to sit perfectly still for five minutes, while the gentleman takes your picture, I’ll give your back my personal attention.” And she showed him the nutmeg-grater.

“Your goodness of heart is only exceeded by your beauty,” grunted the grateful pig as plainly as words could have said it. “Believe me, I shall always be responsive to your slightest wish.”

“I have an idea,” said the Poet. “If you will excuse me I will go and indite a Dissertation on a Pig That was Not Roasted.” And he disappeared into the house.